Totally not prom season. Whatever. Hopefully this will be finished before then. Just wanted to upload something before school begins...tomorrow.
There's evidence suggesting that South Park Elementary is not a k through 8 school (ex: On several occasions the boy's express fear of 6th graders. Never - at least not anything I can think of at the moment - do they mention 7th or 8th graders). Apparently South Park has a separate middle school. Huh, who wouldda thought? Despite this, I always wright South Park Elementary as being a k-8 school. Not sure why.
"Imperial body bags, prom queen disposable
Children wrapped in home-made flags"
~Imperial Body Bags, Manic Street Preachers
"This is so lame. So fucking lame." Pete listened to Michael's drone.
"They're all so goddamn idiotic," Henrietta hissed in agreement. It was evident that the happy buzz going around the school had the opposite affect on South Park's residential goths. The reason for such frolicking amongst the conformists: Prom.
Pete chose to remain silent and took a drag from his clove cigarette.
"Nazi conformist cheerleaders. Nazi conformist cheerleaders. Nazi con-" Henrietta picked up her phone and answered, because screw driving safety. She didn't even get in a hello.
"Eh? Well fuck." She sighed and took a drag of her own. "I need to go break Firkle out of that soul sucking prison known as South Park Elementary. You guys coming?"
Quickly, Michael and Pete shared a look of confirmation.
"No need to wallow in the rejoicing of posers."
Pete snorted and flipped the bangs from his eyes. "Yeah, I think we all had enough saturating in their happy glow." Pete sat up and helped Henrietta fold the blanket they'd been sitting on while Michael grabbed the old radio. The threesome shuffled through the student parking lot and into Mrs. Biggle's car. It embarrassingly screamed "I belong to a women well over thirty" but they were creatures of habit and had used it ever since Henrietta taught herself to drive in the fourth grade.
The boys occupied the back seat while Henrietta slid a Switchblade Symphony CD into the player. Tina Root's monotone vocals set a familiar gloom over them all.
The car swerved repeatedly once it hit the road and the two in the back crashed into each other continuously. Not for the first time, Pete wondered who the hell the evil bastard that gave Henrietta her license was, and praised him. Though Henrietta would have totally drove without one if need be.
All of the trio were significantly roughed up once they arrived at their destination. The dark haired girl called Firkle to alert him of the presence of his getaway car. The call was automatically rejected, which earned a huff, and within seconds Firkle trudged angrily from behind the school toward the car. Once in he slammed the door.
"Jesus," he growled. "That fucking jock-cunt Ike Broflovski has been practically riding my dick all damn day."
Henrietta cackled while Michael scoffed and Pete flipped the hair from his face in amusement.
Without being told Henrietta peeled out from the school and drove haphazardly to the well known route of her home. Firkle turned the music up as high as it would go, which caused the driver to swat his hand away, though she barely turned the volume down.
After a whole nearly-deafening song Henrietta turned the dial until it became background noise.
"I cannot believe I have to go to prom. Let alone without any of you."
Pete offered a sort of groan in sympathy.
The youngest piped up, "Maybe if your girlfriend wasn't a soulless conformist you wouldn't have to go either.
"She isn't."
"No, she's just a gold digger." The curly haired individual's soporific voice made it's existence known. Pete shot him a glare in disapproval of egging her on.
"She manipulates men into giving her money. Idiots just let their cocks lead them to the lion's den. It's fucking cool."
Pete sniggered silently at the irony; just a few months ago Henrietta referred to Mercedes in a similar fashion as her friends, then they got together.
"Don't blame you for bitching though, prom's awful."
"Yeah it sucks. Besides, I think movies gave me high expectations for prom." The car swerved more while the one seated in front made odd sputtering noises. Michael simply eyed him skeptically. Pete flipped his hair again and thought it good to elaborate. "There probably won't be any pig's blood or serial killers at ours." That elicited several chortles from his companions.
"Too true." The noirette pursed her purple lips around her cigarette holder in thought.
"...We're going to dump pig's blood on the prom queen, aren't we?"
"Oh Firkle," smoke streamed from her nostrils as she spoke. Pete watched a bit in awe, he found it greatly painful to exhale smoke through his nose. "Coping movies is for conformists."
"Human blood?"
"If you want to waste time robbing a blood bank. No, we need to do something to really knock those bitches running for prom queen off their social pedestals."
"Sounds as though you have a plan Pete," Henrietta eyed him from the rear view mirror. "Care to share?"
"Everyone thinks either Testaburger or Stevens is going to win for sure, right?" It was true, the two best friends had become worst enemies, which was not exactly a first for them. "Well, that Nicole girl dropped from the nominees and they need another one..." Also true, academically inclined Nicole wanted to focus on cheer and grades without the stress of a campaign.
"Yeah...?"
"Well wouldn't it just piss Testaburger off if someone completely unexpected was randomly thrown in? Let alone won."
"I can just imagine the look on her fucking face." None of the goths particularly liked anyone from their school, but Henrietta despised Wendy...It probably had something to do with her fleeting crush on Stan Marsh that went reciprocated back when he went through his Raven phase.
"Sounds dandy and all but who would just come outta nowhere and beat them both?"
Pete lit another cigarette. "Mercedes."
"What?! Not a chance in hell she's running!"
"Think about it, she's definitely looks the part and her grades are on par with Testabitch. Why wasn't she nominated in the first place?"
"Uh, maybe because she isn't a douche bag poser?"
"You said it yourself, she's a professional manipulator. She can easily turn simple minded prom-obsessed voters."
Michael's eyes roamed around his friends while Henrietta parked roughly into her drive way. Firkle lost interest when the plan no longer involved blood. His own hair had become far more engrossing.
"I like it," the goth girl declared. "Prom nominees' lives ruined by the Drab Four."
Firkle cracked a slight grin.
"More like the Fag Four. God, just imagine what those Kevin and Brittany wannabes are going to say when we all show up with homo dates."
"Since when do we care?" He had always been soft spoken but Pete posed the question in a volume barely above a whisper. Self-consciously, he stared up at his boyfriend through the slight fringe of dark hair.
Michael stared back with a look that was moderately pleading and gently stroked Pete's fingers. He closed his eyes, really, he blamed Michael's parents for their son's insecurity in regard to his masculinity. If Michael's father ever found his son to indeed be a "fag", (Pete was pretty sure Michael was in fact a demisexual and could easily be with a female if the scenario was appropriate) Pete had an inclination of what would happen...and it was far from pretty.
"Speaking of Four, we're going to need to sneak Firkle in."
"No. Fucking. Thanks."
"You're going." Henrietta insisted as they exited the car and headed to the door.
